COD MW2 The Belle and the Blade
by redeye0703
Summary: The story of two US army soldiers, very different in their creed. One a Delta; sworn to kill. One a Medical Officer, sworn to heal. Their experiences, their challenges and trials. No Direct spoilers..Read and review please...Send pm's with suggestions
1. Chapter 1

**Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2: The Belle and the Blade**

"**That which starts sweet ends bitter, and that which starts bitter ends sweet."**

**Washington Monument evacuation site**

**Day 5-02:34 am**

**Second Lieutenant Rachel Pierce**

**US Army Medical Department**

**Washington D.C., USA **

She was more then tired, exhaustion had begun to effectively set in. She had blood caked onto her forearms and uniform. Everyone seemed to; the medical staff seemed to have had gallons poured onto them. She ripped her rubber gloves off in disgust and with a fatigued sigh she pitched them into the overflowing trash bin. She missed the once in a while injury, not the constant need to amputate limbs of those who fell victim to explosive ordinance or shotgun ammunition.

She leaned up against the wall behind her sliding down with a stifled huff. She felt like she'd been run over by a tank; she ran her meek and slender fingers through her auburn locks, wrenching control from her bandana. She angrily dug into her pants pocket for her cigarettes, fumbling with the pack as tears ran down her face.

She quickly wiped them away, pulling a cigarette out and putting it in her mouth while checking the hour; 02:34am. She sighed as she realized the late hour and her vacant fire starter. Suddenly a hand was outstretched before her, lit Zippo hovering just before her. She smiled leaning forward allowing the soldier to light her up.

As she took a sultry puff, the constant pounding of the artillery didn't seem so close, "Thanks you're a life saver." She spoke, giggling wryly at the irony of her comment. The figure that stood before her lit his own cigarette before uttering "How do you figure?" and snapping the Zippo shut; exposing the insignia of the army special forces. She had heard of their duties; nearly four days straight of constant brutal combat. The figure spoke earnestly "May I join you miss?" she nodded in agreement.

He propped his rifle against the wall before sliding down the wall. He took a puff of his death stick, embracing its horridly welcome stench with a relaxed grin. She could tell, full well, that he was tired. The faded camouflages face paint; the torn and bloodied uniform; Even the combat stubble. In the last few days he had seen and done things that she could barely fathom. She rested her head against the sturdy concrete wall of the bunker and thought of home. Though it was far away it was attainable in some small way in the safe and secure confines of her mind.

The soldier's breathing was rhythmic and soothing, giving him the appearance of being asleep without actually being so. It calmed her erratic thoughts, she wanted to talk to someone, anyone. Seeing as how a lot of her friends perished in a helicopter crash; their medical transport being mistaken for gunship support. Their screams echoed in her mind as she dreamt, being her back to the sad notion of reality.

The soldier tilted his head slightly in her direction, eyes still closed. "Where you from miss?" she wanted to answer him, she really did. But in their line of work, conversation was the first step on the road of heartache. She could be killed by any number of things. He could be killed by a lucky crack shot. Instead she opted for playful banter, "Whose asking soldier?" the operator retorted, "No need to get snippy darling, just curious." Grinning as he shot back. She played his game. "New Haven Connecticut. You?" he replied, "Newark, New Jersey."

She sighed playfully, "Looks like you and me are a long ways from home." He nodded lightly, taking a puff, playing defense; maybe his notions were the same as hers. It was nice though; that she could still flirt with a handsome yet haggard gentleman. His face suddenly changed to a frown as he pressed his hand to the earpiece of his radio. He put his cigarette in his mouth, standing quickly he grabbed his rifle and racked the action on the weapon.

"You're leaving?" she spoke softly. He smiled replying, "If you like miss, we can continue this later?" ashing out his cigarette on the heel of his boot before turning to leave. She stood up sharply, grabbing the collar of his vest and brought him in for a kiss. It was short, yet sweet, watching his eyes go wide with intrigue. He blurted out, "Uh- um." She said caressing the back of his neck. "For luck, keep your ears open for Pierce, that's me." He moved closer affectionately touching her chin. "We are definitely going to continue this later."

He turned palming his helmet off his vest and began to put it on, allowing her to engage his chin strap. But as he began to walk away she shouted after him. "Wait, what's your callsign?" he put his bandana over his face and continued to walk away "You don't want to know." But before she could protest, another soldier adorned in much the same way came bounding down the hallway.

He shouted, "Butcher! We're Oscar Mike, we gotta go bro!" he raised his hand in acknowledgement, ashamed. She moved to him, "Its fine, but how about I just call you Smiley?" he responded cautiously. "I'm good with that." She could see him smiling behind his mask, before he turned to follow he compatriot down the hallway from which they came from.

She sat back down against the wall as one of her friend joined her as she stubbed out her cigarette on the ground. "Who was that Rachel?" she replied, "A spec-ops guy; his callsign was Butcher." Her friend's mouth and eyes went wide. Rachel retorted playfully, "What Lisa?" she responded harshly. "That guy is a heartless monster; do you even know why they call him that?" Rachel was curious; but her faith in humanity outweighed her intrigue of their brutal and possibly immoral actions during times of conflict.


	2. Chapter 2

**Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2: The Belle and the Blade**

"**The Earth is a hell all to itself; and men are the demons who reign over it."**

**2 days earlier-22:30**

**Corporal Adrian Worth**

**1****st**** Special Forces Operational Detachment- "Delta Force" **

**Boston, Massachusetts USA**

He'd fought them for ten agonizing hours straight; his jaw finally unclenching at the sight of the enemy approaching, weapons raised about their heads in surrender. They, like him, were ragged and worn from combat. He'd seen his comrade's fall to the dirt just as they did. He killed for country and creed as they did. But they weren't like him.

These animals, these savages had swept across the city like a swarm of locusts leaving only death and destruction in their wake. These select few soldiers weren't soldiers like him. He didn't hide behind civilians as human shields. He didn't pillage his way through an opposing faction's town; nor did he torture prisoners of war.

He stared wide–eyed at his remaining compatriots as they moved to police the surrenders', some reduced to using their side-arms or captured enemy weapons. One soldier, a support gunner named Meyers he'd served with since his first tour, broke protocol completely and grabbed a particularly feeble looking Russian soldier and began to beat him mercilessly. He wanted to join in and pummel his foe in a flurry of punches augmented by armored knuckles. It took three men to drag Meyers' away from the man left heap.

Meyers, though he was an ox of a man, had gotten word that his family had perished by means of enemy airstrike that flattened an evacuation site in Memphis, Tennessee; Meyers' cries and howls could be heard from a long ways off, striking his helmet like a sledgehammer each time Meyers' shouted in malice.

His ranking officer stomped up to the surrendering soldiers drawing his side-arm and ordering them to their knees using more visual cues then actual commands as his words were drenched in obscenities. The prisoners obeyed with a little prompting from a masked shot gunner who struck any who did not comply immediately. The remaining defenders rallied to their officer to not only shout their own curses and spit hatred at the fearful kneeling enemy but to act as security, raising their weapons more as a deterrent as many of them were out of ammunition.

"What are we going to do with them Sarge?" queried a young private, wiping dirt off of his face. He didn't know his name because he was a Delta. Delta's rarely mingled with the regular "Dog-Faced" infantry. It was a miracle that the young infantryman had survived the engagement as he and only three other of his compatriots had survived from their original deployment of twelve even though the Delta's were some of the best in business of death.

The Infantry sergeant remarked harshly "They're Prisoners of war, we have to take them with us for a debriefing." He openly gawked at the comment. "Take them with us?" he huffed in disgust. The Delta uttered angrily to himself, "Why the fuck should we take prisoners if they don't?" He found himself beginning to fume as an aura of hatred seemed to radiate away from him. The infantry sergeant cast a sharp glance in his direction, "What was that Worth?" He shouted back, "Nothing Sarge." His hand began to twitch, his fingers lightly tapping the handle of his sidearm, a sawn off shotgun.

Worth marched out of his trench being guided not by reason; but by horrid, unintelligible emotional distress. He had lost so much, his home, his friends and family to people like these. He loaded his rifle in a clandestine manner stalking toward his kneeling foes. They stared at the approaching wolf curiously as no words were uttered and no out of place actions.

He stood off to the side with one of his comrades that had survived, Lewiston, a fellow Delta whom he'd also served with since his first tour of duty. "They're going to get off scot-free. Beds with clean sheets, warm food and fair treatment; while our guys are having their fingernails pulled out. What a crock." Worth stared at the US soldiers; awkwardly they reminded him of a pack Rottweiler's being willed to fight in the ring against weaker dogs. The Russian soldiers being the weaker dogs.

Worth then eyed the kneeling Russians intently with fire in his eyes. He moved quickly, prompting a haughty response from his friend, "Worth where are you- What the fuck!" as Worth racked the action on his rifle and shoved past his comrades and hoisted his weapon aiming straight at prisoners and opening up with a salvo of pent up rage. Round after round struck their rigid frames as they flailed to and fro. When Worth finished he continued to pull the trigger though he was fully out of ammunition.

The ranking officer was shouting but Worth did not respond. He stood in the firing position eyes closed, trying to process his actions. "Worth! What have you done?" shouted the officer incoherently, Worth couldn't focus on that, remembering the soldier that had been left in a heap and moved to pursue him. But as he did the officer in charge, latched onto his shoulder and attempted to hold him in place.

But Worth detached from him, punching him straight in the throat, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. He coughed, "You're finished, you here me? You're finished!" Worth stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly and walking straight back to the officer and hoisted him into the standing position. He reared his fist as if to punch him, and as the officer attempted to defend, and with gruesome efficiency kicked the officer's knee backwards, an incredible crunch echoing across the field. The surrounding subordinates winced in horror.

Worth turned on heel and stalked up to the heap of a soldier, who attempted to crawl away from the scene, his frantic hollering going unanswered. Worth drew his trench knife, a contraband weapon; essentially, a bowie knife with a pair of brass knuckles and he eyed the blade; never losing pace with the fearful fleeing invader. His knife was a work of art to him, the leading edge of the blade tapered into a piercing point.

The Russian tried his hardest to stand and run, only managing a frantic hobble, staggering under pain of broken ribs. His shouting got louder, as the audience had grown surrounding the pair. Without another word Worth rushed the hobbling shade, and checked him to the ground and began to pound on him, the brass knuckles connecting to the facial features, creating a sickening cacophony of grunts and screams intermixed with cracks of shattering bone.

By the time that Worth had finished with the his prey, to young man no longer had a recognizable face, as it had been battered and now mangled beyond repair. He was attempting to sob, spitting up his own teeth and coughing up blood with every breath. Worth's breathing had become animalistic and terrifying. Eyes wide with subsiding fury, he wiped his blade on his pant leg before sheathing it. His comrade came close cautiously touching the shoulder of the barbarian his friend had become. "Adrian, bro, put him out of his misery. Please." Worth nodded in agreement, slowly rolling the hideously trampled prisoner onto his stomach and placed him into a headlock.

Worth shifted his body weight and jerked quickly to one side snapping the prisoner's neck. Worth stood feeling quite proud of himself and walked away quietly. The rest of his unit stared at him in pure staggering awe. Not knowing whether or not to congratulate his actions or scold him. He had murdered sixteen prisoners of war and didn't even flinch. If anything he enjoyed it. He sat down taking off of his helmet and face mask placing them at his side before retrieving his canteen and taking a long swig.

He paused as if to care but spoke in a hushed tone, "What did he say, before I thrashed him?" Lewiston was almost afraid to answer him, "What did he say Matt?" Lewiston had the attention of not only Worth but also the unit, "He called you the Butcher." Worth's features seemed to light up though smeared with muck. "Butcher…I like that."


End file.
